The Night Brother. Rosie Garland
trying to give birth, or at least that’s what Gnome whispers in my ear. I titter at his naughty joke. No one hears my little scrap of laughter over the din. No one wags their finger and tells me to be a good girl. The realisation of such delicious liberty occurs to us both at the same time. Gnome’s eyes glitter, teeth sharp as a knife.
‘Come on. Make a racket.’
‘I can’t.’ He grabs the skin of my arm and twists. ‘Ow!’ I squeak. My skin burns as though he’s stubbed out a cigar. ‘Stop it, Gnome.’
‘Not till you scream. No one can hear you.’
In agreement, a barricade of bangers is let off. My stomach pitches and rolls.
‘Aah!’ I try, hard as I can. All that comes out is a feeble mewing.
‘Do you want me to pinch you black and blue?’ Gnome growls.
‘Aah!’ I cry, a bit louder.
‘More. Still can’t hear you.’
I am struck by the realisation that tonight will never come again. I will not be able to claw back so much as one second.
‘That’s right,’ says Gnome. ‘Drink every drop. Live every minute. Yell!’
My voice breaks out of my throat. ‘Aaaah!’
‘Yes! Open your cake-hole and let rip!’
I stretch my lips wide and shriek. Gnome joins in and together, our shouts punch holes in the clouds and soar to the stars.
‘Oh!’ he cries. ‘Wouldn’t it be grand to grab the tail of a rocket and fly all the way to the moon and live there and never come back?’
I think of my warm bed, the comforting arms of my grandmother, kind-hearted Uncle Arthur on his monthly visits. The thought of losing them makes my heart slide sideways.
‘Isn’t the moon awfully cold?’ I say nervously.
‘Not a bit. Don’t you ache to spread your wings?’
‘Do I have to?’
He waggles his hands in frustration. ‘Don’t you ache to be free?’
‘Free of what?’
‘Just once, I wish you weren’t such a stick-in-the-mud, Edie. I’m never able to do what I want. Always chained to you, shackled like a prisoner—’
The barrage of words finds its target and stings.
‘Oh,’ I say.
He frowns. ‘Dash it all, Edie, I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t take on so.’ But he does mean it, exactly like that. ‘Forget I spoke. I should hold my tongue.’
He makes amends by sticking out his tongue and pinching it tight. I try to smile, but it is not easy. I don’t understand how he can say such a cruel thing. I never demand that he come and play with me. I never force him to stay. If he finds me so tiresome, I don’t know why he insists on my company. It is confusing.
Gnome piggy-backs me home. He does not grumble, not once.
‘I thought you said I was as heavy as a hod of bricks,’ I mumble.
‘So you are. But I am strong as a bricklayer.’
I squeeze him so tight we can’t breathe. ‘Don’t leave me, Gnome. Not ever.’
He doesn’t answer; too busy hoisting me on to the roof of the outhouse, up the pipe and through the window. We tumble through, tickling each other and rolling on the floor like puppies.
‘Get into bed,’ chides Gnome, herding me towards the cot he hauled me out of such a short time before. ‘It’ll be light soon.’
I skip across the floor, ears buzzing, fingertips shooting sparks as though I’ve brought the fireworks home. ‘No it won’t.’
‘It’s usually you who is the sensible one.’ He tries to be stern, but I can hear glee at the back of his words.
‘How can I sleep after such an adventure? It is quite impossible.’
‘No, you are quite impossible. Hurry up. Get out of these britches,’ he says, fumbling with the buttons. I try to help but I’m all fingers and thumbs. ‘Leave off,’ he cries. ‘I’ll be quicker.’
He wrestles with the fly and wins. The trousers fall to my ankles. I take a step, trip and fall flat upon the mattress. Marbles scatter across the rug. He seizes his opportunity, pins me down and endeavours to drag the shirt over my head.
‘We’ve got to fold the trousers and put them away tidily,’ I mumble.
‘No time,’ he says with an odd urgency. He sounds an awfully long way off, as if he has turned into a gnat and is whining in my ear. I flap my hand but it is stuck half in and half out of the shirt. ‘Stay still,’ he says, so grave and unlike his usual self I can’t help tittering.
All my clothes are off. The blanket is scratchy, coarse.
‘Tell me a bedtime story, Gnome,’ I say, halfway gone.
Breath close to my ear, hot and stifling. He folds his hand in mine. My hand in his. I think of Nana folding butter into flour. I flutter my fingers and hear Gnome giggle.
‘That tickles.’
Perhaps I say it. Perhaps it is Gnome. I’m so sleepy I’m no longer sure where he ends and I begin. Nor does it matter: I have never known such bliss and I know he feels it also. I know everything he has ever known, feel everything he has ever felt. It is so simple. I did not realise—
The door flies open. Ma stands against the light, her candle shivering the walls with shadow.
‘Come now, Edie,’ she says. ‘What’s all this noise?’
‘Ma!’ I cheer, still fizzing with excitement. I reach for her to gather me into her arms.
‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ She plonks down the candle, marches across the room and closes the window.
Shh, hisses Gnome. Don’t tell.
The space between my ears is spinning with red and yellow lights; rockets are bouncing off the walls of my ribs. I can’t help myself.
‘I’ve been to the fireworks!’ I crow. ‘It was wonderf—’
‘You naughty girl!’ she exclaims, pushing aside my grasping hands. ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. You’re too little to step out on your own.’
‘I didn’t. Gnome held my hand.’
Don’t say my name! says Gnome. Not to her.
‘What?’ Ma swallows so heavily I see the muscles in her neck clump together. ‘Who …?’
‘I told Gnome you’d be cross, but he wouldn’t listen …’
‘Gnome?’ she gulps. ‘No.’
Her eyes stretch so wide they look like they might pop out of her head. I hold my hand over my mouth to push the giggle back in.
That’s torn it, says Gnome.
‘No. No. No,’ she mutters, over and over, shaking her head from side to side. ‘I’ll not have it. There’s no such person.’
‘There is! He’s here every night.’
I don’t know why Ma is being so silly. The candle flame wobbles. Her expression twists from disbelief to belief, belief to shame, shame to fear, fear to anger. She slaps the back of my legs. Not hard, but it stings.
‘Ow! Ma, you’re hurting.’
‘Serves you right for telling lies.’
‘I’m not. Gnome!’ I cry. ‘Come back and tell Ma!’